


16 Hours

by burnthebones



Category: Maggot Boy
Genre: Implied Future Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnthebones/pseuds/burnthebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Owen Wright, and you are going to die. You are going to die in 16 hours and 40 minutes, and you are going to die by electric chair, and you are going to stay dead this time. Of this you are certain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	16 Hours

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this](http://shipsidered.tumblr.com/post/31658896553/owen-hallucinating-daydreaming-before-the-electric) art by [flipsidered](http://flipsidered.tumblr.com/).

Your name is Owen Wright, and you are going to die. You are going to die in 16 hours and 40 minutes, and you are going to die by electric chair, and you are going to stay dead this time. Of this you are certain.

What you are not certain about is the 15-year-old boy hunched over and crying in front of you. When the guard escorted him in, his face was already red with the effort, and drying tear trails were retraced with fresh grief upon seeing you. Your standard, prison-issued uniform. The close shave they gave your head after your sentence came through. His red eyes went from one to the other, and the sob he tried to stifle was ugly and broken. It was for you, and you can't understand why.

"Stop it," you tell him. "Stop fuckin' crying."

He sniffles loudly and wipes at his upturned nose, also red, with his sleeve. He does not stop crying.

"This was always gonna happen," you say.

"I know," he says, and you believe him. He was never a stupid kid. "Just--"

"No. Stop it." You put your hands high on his hips. He is warm and trembles terribly with his sobbing. The guard is gone.

Parker is taller than you when he unfolds at your touch, but he brings his head down until your foreheads are together. His bangs catch in the stubble of your cropped hair. His breath is hot across your nose and your upper lip. It doesn't smell like anything, and you wonder when he last had something to eat. The idea of him neglecting to take care of himself just because you're going to fry makes you feel sick in a nervous, gut-twisting way with which you're completely unfamiliar.

"Idiot," you say. You try and pull back. Doing away with the hair and clothes cut back on some of the stench, but at the end of the day, you're still a corpse. He can't actually enjoy being this close to you, but he's grabbing your elbows. Curling his fingers up the backs of your arms and digging his thumbs into your cool flesh. You try to be exasperated. "You of all people shouldn't be crying over--"

"Shut up," he says, and he presses his cheek tightly to yours. Leans his face into you and smears his tears across your discoloured skin. His shoulders shake and his hands slide up your arms and over your shoulder blades until he's holding you against him. Your arms are crowded awkwardly between your chest and his, but you don't think he notices.

"Parker--"

"Just shut _up_."

It's salty when he kisses you. You thought it would be different. You thought he would taste like toothpaste or soda or those stupid Spiderman fruit snacks he always has in his bag. You thought nothing because you knew this would never happen.

It doesn't matter now. You press your lips into his because he is the only person that cares. Because you are about to die. Because you are 14 years old.

You're supposed to close your eyes when you kiss, so you do. You listen to his heart because you can't hear yours, and you feel his fingers grip the back of your shirt. You try to flatten your hands against his chest in some kind of answer.

You find it's not easy to kiss someone who's crying. Everything is wet and his mouth moves unexpectedly with the more forceful sobs, and he has to be close to tiring himself out by this point.

You break from his mouth. There is nothing to say.

Your name is Owen Wright, and you are hallucinating. There is no one in your cell but you, and no one is allowed contact with you for 16 hours and 26 minutes.

No one cares that you are about to die. No one cares that you are 14 years old. You are a murderer, and this is justice.

You push the heels of your palms against your closed eyes and try to get the taste of tears out of your mouth.


End file.
